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“You are going to give me time?” he mocked me.
I nodded. “Whatever you need. Really. I remember how hard it was when my father died.” I didn’t mention that he never contacted me. My father died from complications from pneumonia only a year after Knight was shipped to Paris. I had stared at my phone for weeks, hoping, praying, begging he would reach out to me.
“I had a meeting with Paul last night,” he explained. “I know everything, Kennedy. I know what you own. Who you have deals with. What you stole from my family.”
“I’ve stolen nothing.”
He shook his head. “Who are you? What happened to that girl I met?”
I sighed. “The girl in the pool house?”
“Yes.” His eyes softened briefly. “Why are they calling you the queen of the Crescent City? How the fuck did that happen?”
“You make it sound like a bad thing.” My eyes narrowed. He had no idea how hard I worked to earn the respect of our fathers’ peers.
“You’re proud of it?”
I shook my head. “You grew up mafia royalty. Don’t judge me.”
“But this? How?”
I started to realize he had been kept in the dark. Raphael hadn’t told Knight anything about our arrangements. I was as shocked as he was.
“You could have stayed in touch,” I whispered.
“I stayed away because—” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You need to understand something. I’m taking it all back. Every damn thing you wrenched away from my family.”
“Knight, it’s business. You know that.”
“Don’t!” he yelled. The growl in his voice echoed around the small chamber. The candles on the wall shook. I expected Kimble to rush in, but the confessional was soundproof. “You don’t get to lecture me about business. About families. About organizations. About deals and negotiations you knew nothing about. You were a college grad lounging at the pool. Drinking on Instagram. What the hell, Kennedy?”
I slid the glove over my right hand, taking my time to make sure my fingers fit securely. I’d met with impatience and rage for years.
I met his eyes.
“Trust me, I’m not the girl who drinks on Instagram anymore.” I stepped closer so he could hear my whispers. I inhaled his cologne. His masculine scent that I’d dreamed about almost every night since he left. Nights I’d shot straight up in bed, wishing I could get on a plane to Paris. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to look in his eyes. I wanted to see his sexy grin and laugh with him about something utterly ridiculous. This version of Knight was foreign to me. He was angry. Bitter. Soulless.
“That’s fucking clear,” he spat.
I unlocked the latch. “Have Paul call Renee. She’ll set up a meeting for our legal teams.” I closed the door and walked into the hall.
Kimble instinctively wrapped an arm around me as soon as I appeared. My knees shook and my palms were sweaty inside the gloves. I believed I had masked it all from Knight.
“We’re leaving now,” he stated.
I nodded my head. “Okay.” I couldn’t argue. I had to get as far away from Knight as I could.
17
Knight
Twelve hours earlier
Paul looked as if he had aged like a president in the five years I’d been gone. His hair was gone from the top and there were heavy lines around his eyes. Deep crevices from stress. Lines that developed from the dark secrets he kept for my family. I knew the man had been working around the clock since my father died, but it was more than black circles under his eyes.
“We need to move quickly,” I stated. “Dad always wanted me to run the organization from here once I moved from Paris. Are there papers to sign? Just put them here.” I tapped the top of my father’s desk. I was impatient. I was unsteady from running into Kennedy.
I reached for the crystal decanter on the corner of the desk. I poured a rich bourbon. I wasn’t going to let it register that I was the man sitting behind the desk now.
